


Shot at the Night

by MissAnnThropic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 11:56:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2427839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissAnnThropic/pseuds/MissAnnThropic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles told everyone he was fine once the nogitsune was gone.  He lied.  He was the opposite of fine.  Post-nogitsune angst with a generous dollop of Sterek pre-slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shot at the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posting: I do not consent to have my fics posted to other websites (such a Goodreads).

It wasn’t supposed to be sunny the day they buried Allison.

Stiles knew he should be thinking about more important things. Like the fact he would never see Allison again. The fact that they’d all lost a dear friend. 

Or that he was in some measure responsible.

Maybe that’s why he couldn’t let go of the wrongness of the sun attending. He was in no way, by any stretch of the imagination, responsible for the cloudless day.

“It’s supposed to be cloudy,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?” Scott asked and turned to look at him. Right… werewolf hearing.

“Nothing, it’s just…” Stiles shook his head and looked toward his friend. There was utter, raw pain in Scott’s eyes. Stiles didn’t need superpowers to see that. That was Scott’s first love being put in the ground, and Stiles was intruding on his grief to bitch about the fucking clouds.

“Nothing, it’s fine,” Stiles whispered and looked back down at his hands.

A lie. Nothing was fine. Allison was dead and he was… was… _broken_.

He shouldn’t be there.

They should have killed him before he’d been able to hurt anybody. 

Stiles sat with his friends, and he knew they were all thinking the same thing he was. Maybe no one would _say_ it, but in some corner of their minds they were thinking ‘if only we’d put Stiles down before it came to this’.

He didn’t blame them.

Allison might blame him.

He shouldn’t be there.

He came in a suit and tie… the tie ended up balled and twisted in his hands, an outlet for his impending breakdown. Every time he wanted to scream, he twisted the tie. Every time he wanted to stand up and run, he twisted. Every time he wanted to tell everyone how sorry he was, _how fucking sorry_ , he twisted. Every time the unending ache in him flared and he wanted to curl up in a ball and cry, he twisted.

Twist.

Twist.

 _Twist_.

It shouldn’t have been sunny. But if it was going to deny Allison a dreary day of mourning – if the sky didn’t have the decency to cry for her – the least the sun could have done was chase away the bone-deep cold in Stiles.

But it didn’t do that, either. Because nothing was as it should be… least of all Stiles.

**********************************

“Stiles…”

“Yeah, Dad.”

“You okay?”

Stiles let out a laugh… too late, by the look on his father’s face, he knew it sounded frayed and twisted. He clenched the ruined tie in one hand where it was stuffed inside his suit jacket pocket. “No, Dad… Allison’s funeral was today. No, I’m not okay.”

“Right, no… I just mean… how do you feel?”

Stiles stood in the living room with his father, the both of them dressed to bury a teenage girl, and he studied his dad, parsing his meaning with a calculating detachment that Stiles didn’t feel was truly his own. Like this he’d learned from his hijacker.

His dad wanted to know about the fallout of being the vessel of a dark spirit. He wanted to know about the pain that lingered – had never left – in the nogitsune’s wake. He wanted to know about this burgeoning certainty Stiles had that he would never feel warm again. He wanted to know about the nightmares. He wanted to know about the terror of falling asleep every single night, a part of Stiles afraid every time he closed his eyes that it would be letting something in.

His dad was asking about everything he didn’t actually want to _know_.

“I’m just… tired.”

The sheriff nodded. “But you’re going to be okay.”

It didn’t sound like a question. He was telling Stiles. Or maybe just telling himself.

One of them might as well believe it. Stiles didn’t want to cause his loved ones any more pain. A lie would be a kindness… maybe all the comfort he had left to give.

“Sure. Aren’t I always?” Stiles excavated a smile, but it felt wrong on his face. Like he’d forgotten how.

His dad kind of winced, like Stiles didn’t get it quite right, but he wanted to believe in it. The sheriff nodded and gave back a weak smile of his own. “Okay, son… look, I know this is a rough time… just, if you need anything, let me know.”

Stiles tightened his fist around his tie. He needed to stop existing. To have never existed. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t been the weakness in the group, the one where the nogitsune found a way in. He needed to not have been.

He wasn’t suicidal. Because to die now would be pointless. Dying now would just cause his friends and dad more grief. No, he didn’t want to die now. He should have died when it would have done some good. Now he just wanted to stop being. Guilt was a dark spirit looking for a way in, too, and Stiles was so, so tired of fighting.

“You bet, Dad.”

**********************************

_You okay?_

Stiles lay in bed and tapped his finger against the side of his phone, contemplating the text message from their resident banshee. She was the only one who’d checked on him. It had been hours since the funeral, and late yes, but no way were any of them getting to sleep tonight, and Stiles’ phone had been silent until that single chime at 11:30pm. A single two-word text from Lydia.

That wasn’t fair to the others, though. Scott and Isaac had been in relationships with Allison. They had enough to cope with, and checking in with Stiles would be low on the priority list. 

Or they didn’t know how to deal with the guy who’d been the face of the killer.

 _I can’t look at myself in the mirror_ Stiles started to text, then he erased it and frowned at his phone. He ached for something. Solace. Comfort. Reassurance. 

Lies, basically. 

But he couldn’t put this on Lydia, either. Allison had been her best friend. They’d done everything they had – Allison had _died_ – to free Stiles from the nogitsune. Any trauma he had left over was collateral. They did their part; the rest was on him.

 _Crap day_ Stiles finally texted back _how are you holding up?_ If anything, he should be the one offering comfort.

 _Tired of death_ Lydia replied.

Stiles kind of smiled, even though it wasn’t remotely funny. With her gift, this was most likely not the end of Lydia’s front-row seat to death’s handiwork. Stiles hated that. He wanted better for her, but life wasn’t fair and people died. Especially around them. Particularly around Stiles.

 _It’ll be better tomorrow_ Stiles texted. _Get some sleep._

Even though he didn’t expect to get any.

**********************************

Summer vacation swept them out like an undertow, pulling wearied swimmers down into the darkness without a scream. It just pulled them out and let them drown.

They didn’t plan any parties or road trips. They didn’t want to celebrate. They all just slunk home to lick their wounds. 

Stiles definitely felt like a wounded animal. His new spot was on the corner of the couch with the blinds open… hoping the sun pouring through the window could finally take the edge off the chill in his bones. It hadn’t yet, but he hoped it might eventually start to work.

“Stiles?... Stiles, are you paying attention?”

“What?” He blinked up at his dad, dressed for work and looking down at him with a concerned scowl. “No, sorry… what did you say?”

The sheriff sighed, “I asked aren’t you hot in that hoodie? It’s summer, for crying out loud. You’re going to give yourself heat stroke.”

Stiles looked down at the red hoodie he’d pulled out from the back of his closet. He wished his dad were right… heat stroke sounded kind of nice. It would mean being hot first, and that had to be preferable to cold. _Had_ to be.

“I’m okay,” Stiles answered, pulling the sleeves down over his hands to hold in whatever body heat he might still put off… if any. He was starting to think the nogitsune had left him broken. Permanently, irrevocably broken.

His dad looked troubled. “Look… I’m going to be on night shift for a while...” he trailed like he wanted to say more but it stuck in his throat. Stiles knew the things his father couldn’t say. Why he was pulling the graveyard shift. He’d taken off too much personal time with Stiles when he was possessed. They were down men because people had been killed and injured when the bomb went off in the station.

All of it, Stiles’ fault.

“Yeah, okay.”

“I don’t… I hate leaving you like this.”

“Like this,” Stiles made a flippant gesture, striving for funny, “you mean all the underage drinking and partying that I’ll get up to while you’re out?” God, kidding around used to be so effortless. Now it was a Herculean effort, but he did it to seem normal. He did it to pretend he was okay.

Clearly it wasn’t the Academy Award-winning performance he’d hoped. His father’s shoulders dropped and he gave Stiles that ‘concerned parent’ look. “Stiles… are you…” he changed tactics. “Have you talked to Scott lately?”

Stiles flinched back and crossed his arms over his stomach, pinned between his body and his knees. “Scott’s got a lot to deal with right now.”

“So do you.”

Stiles looked out the window.

“I just worry about you.”

Stiles’ gut clenched. That was possibly the worst thing his father could have said. The one thing Stiles wanted was to not be the reason people worried anymore.

“I’m fine, Dad… alive and breathing… and nagging you to go to work. Get going or you’ll be late.”

The sheriff gave up with a grunt and stepped forward to reach out and touch his son. 

Stiles twitched the second before they made physical contact to make sure his dad’s hand fell on his hoodie-clad shoulder. He made sure they didn’t touch skin-to-skin. He didn’t want his dad to start fretting about why Stiles’ skin was so cold.

**********************************

Stiles woke up screaming and thrashing.

The sound of his own yelling was awful, but the sucking silence of the house when he stopped was worse.

Shaking and sweaty, Stiles stumbled out of bed and toward the bathroom. He hit the light and leaned over the sink, pointedly not looking up. He couldn’t look at his reflection anymore. Too many people had seen that face right before they died.

Stiles splashed water on his face then braced his arms on the sink to try and gather himself. His heart pounded solid against his ribs. Brittle ribs. They wouldn’t take much to break. Human bodies were so frail. Not much at all to snap the bones. The muscle… that would tear, shear like fabric. Blood would flow. Fast at first, then in pulsing rivers, shivering creeks, flagging with the dying. Hot and slick at first, then cool and sticking. The whole human body sinking into the cold and still of dead.

He knew. He’d felt death. He’d become it. Destroyer of worlds.

Stiles gagged and lurched for the toilet. If he’d remembered to eat dinner, it would have come up in a rush. As it was, he dry heaved and croaked but threw up nothing but watery bile.

When his stomach gave up, he slumped on the floor, one arm and his head pillowed on the cold porcelain. He wasn’t really sure if it was the seat or him that was cold. He shivered all the same, body desperate for heat it couldn’t have.

He couldn’t face the idea of going back to bed. He couldn’t stand the quiet of the house. Empty. Hollow. Like a person with the soul ripped out. 

Like Stiles with a hole ripped inside him where the nogitsune was torn out.

Surgical precision had been abandoned for yanking and mauling. His friends had mutilated him in the saving of him. Too much of Stiles maimed and removed with the fox.

Stiles got to his feet gracelessly. He went to his room but briefly, grabbed his hoodie off the foot of his bed, and walked out the front door.

**********************************

Nights found Stiles passing the hours walking the neighborhood. It was hard to explain, but he felt better at night being on the outside, everyone in their beds inside kept safe from him.

He’d been the darkness people kept at bay, and going back wasn’t easy. It might even be impossible. Stiles wasn’t ready to believe that yet, but it wouldn’t take much to convince him.

He didn’t deserve that anymore. He’d been the gateway for evil. People had died. He and the darkness deserved each other… or understood each other. Maybe they were the same thing.

Stiles had a route he liked to walk. The path less-travelled, neglected stretches of concrete that suited him now. Skeletal artificial shadows thrown by dead trees and sickly yellow lamp light. Uneven sidewalks that brought him back to himself with every rough, scratching step. Pot holes that knew his weary travels.

His night world was a canvas of shadows and busted pavement and distressed asphalt. It felt like a place he could almost belong.

He hunched his shoulders and buried his hands further in his hoodie pockets when the harsh brightness of a passing car’s headlights neared. Every so often a car would pass him, but not often at this hour. He shied and held his breath until it passed each time, eager to be left alone with his demons and the shadows.

This time the car didn’t pass him by. It slowed. It stopped.

Stiles resolutely kept walking. This was his world. It belonged to him now. Nobody had any business trying to intrude. He couldn’t hurt anyone out here. His brokenness was masked by the night out here. He wanted to stay.

“Stiles?”

Stiles stopped short and looked over at the familiar voice. He stared wordlessly at Derek Hale leaning over in his car to look out the passenger-side window at Stiles. Neither of them seemed to really know what to do with this random encounter.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” Derek asked.

There was no good answer for that. None.

“I, uh… just going for a walk.”

“A _walk_? Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“No.” He really didn’t. It didn’t matter. He just knew to turn for home when dawn started stealing his sick shadows.

Derek made a face, looked down the empty road, then he beckoned Stiles with his hand. “Get in.”

Stiles didn’t budge from his spot.

“Stiles. Get in the car.” There was a growl of command in Derek’s tone that made Stiles move, whether he wanted to or not. He went to the car, opened the door, and slid into the passenger seat. He hunkered down in the seat, made himself small.

“Are you all right?”

Stiles gave an unconvincing half-shrug. What kind of question was that, really? He responded in a manner he thought befitting the question and clenched his jaw. He waited for Derek to just get on with it.

But he didn’t. The werewolf was sitting there staring at him, waiting for an answer.

Stiles sighed irritably. “Course I am… perfectly all right people go for walks in the middle of the night all the time, right?”

Derek’s eyebrows twitched upward.

Stiles rubbed a hand through his hair and looked away from Derek. He was on the ragged edge here, he could feel it. He was exhausted and it would cause him to crack if he wasn’t careful. That couldn’t happen. No one could know how broken he really was. “I could ask you the same question,” Stile countered, flicking a glance at Derek, “what are you doing out in the middle of the night?”

“Creature of the night,” Derek responded drolly.

“Thought that was vampires. Or prostitutes. Oh god, you’re not either of those too, are you?”

“Hardly.” Derek put the car in gear and started driving. “Seriously, what are you doing going for a walk in the middle of the night?”

“I’m a weird dude… thought you knew that.”

Derek gave him a look like Stiles was not bullshitting him, and Stiles just hunched down further in his seat. Outside of his father, this was the most interaction he’d had with another person in weeks, and he just couldn’t put up the front. He was so tired.

“The last time you were out wandering in the middle of the night it didn’t end well,” Derek pointed out.

Stiles snorted. Right. “Well, I’d imagine the odds of being possessed by two evil Japanese fox spirits in a lifetime are on par with getting hit by lightning on the same day you win the lottery after bowling a perfect game the same week you win the Boston marathon, so I don’t think you have to worry that I’m going to turn on you.”

“I’m not scared of you,” Derek said all matter-of-fact, and Stiles locked up. He hadn’t realized he needed someone to say that until Derek did. It was just that everyone _should_ be afraid of him. His friends weren’t talking to him, and his dad was walking on eggshells around him, and no one was saying it but they were all _afraid_ of him. They should be. He’d been weak, he let it in, and people had died. _Allison_ had died.

“Stiles! Breathe.” Derek’s hand was on his shoulder, gripping tight, and Stiles couldn’t remember Derek putting it there. Had he blacked out or just zoned out? Was there a difference? Was one better than the other?

Stiles realized Derek was right, he wasn’t breathing, and he gasped. He sucked in a lung-full of air and wheezed, shaky and nauseous.

“Shit,” Stiles mumbled as he shrugged off Derek’s hand and curled toward the passenger door. He put his head in his hand and clenched his eyes shut. “Can you just take me home?”

Derek didn’t move right away, and Stiles wanted to yell at him. Or cry. Derek was going to make this hard. He was going to want things from Stiles that he just couldn’t give. The façade. The old Stiles. It was too late, or too early, and he was too threadbare to do it. He just wanted to be away from anyone who might care about him in the slightest. He wanted to be free of the responsibility of making people not worry about him. He wanted the night… the living thing that didn’t make him feel that he was not enough.

At length, Derek put the car back in gear (when had they pulled over?) and drove on.

The next time he stopped, it was in front of Stiles’ house.

“We’re here… where’s your dad?”

“Work… night shift. Thanks for the lift.” He went to exit the car but Derek grabbed his shoulder again. Gentler this time, but Stiles’ body ached. He was starting to accept it always would. Any touch was painful.

“You sure you’re okay on your own?”

Stiles sidled away from Derek’s touch. “Not a baby. See you later.” He got out of the car and headed toward the house.

“Right… later.”

**********************************

Stiles had no idea ‘later’ would be so soon.

He was out the next night on his walk when footfalls began approaching him from behind. That was new. In all his midnight strolls, he’d never run across another nightwalker. 

He supposed he should be worried about a serial killer kidnapping him and dragging him off to some shack in the woods to chop him into tiny pieces, but after everything he’d been through a person just didn’t raise his heartbeat. Maybe it would be karma taking care of things. He’d probably have to pay for the things he’d let happen sooner or later, anyway.

The person behind him caught up… and instead of passing by (or grabbing him) fell in step beside him.

Stiles frowned and glanced over at the weirdo… only to blink in surprise when he realized it was Derek.

The werewolf had his hands tucked casually in his jeans pockets, t-shirt all the defense against the summer night he needed. He acted like it was not strange at all to be on a walk in the dead of night with a recently-exorcised teenager.

Stiles looked back down at his feet, stammering for something to say. He came up with nothing. Derek didn’t seem overly-concerned about filling the silence, either. They ended up walking side-by-side in silence for a long time.

At first, Stiles was tense. He was waiting for the demands. The questions. The overbearing expectation for explanations. But Derek just walked beside him, content to keep the quiet as long as Stiles did. 

Eventually, Stiles started to relax. Then he started to appreciate not being alone. Since the nogitsune, not being alone also meant keeping up the act, and Stiles was at his wits end faking fine. His dad was starting to look at him like he didn’t buy it anymore, but no one wanted to be the one to shatter the illusion and say ‘no, Stiles is not okay’ and then figure out how to tackle that. Because how do you treat PTSD from evil spirit possession?

Pretty sure that wasn’t in the DSM-V.

So it was actually… nice… having Derek there and keeping his mouth shut. Stiles didn’t really want to be _alone_ , he just didn’t want to feel like he was backed into a corner. His father meant well, he wanted to help, but it felt like his concern and questions and hovering did just that… backed Stiles into a corner.

Maybe he’d become too much a fox for his ordeal and had grown to despise cages.

Stiles had never been someone at ease with himself (ADHD and panic attacks just two points of proof of how ill-equipped Stiles was at being himself), but now he felt downright claustrophobic in his own skin. Or maybe that his skin wasn’t his anymore. It had belonged to another once, but it was Stiles who would have to live with what his hands had done.

Stiles had all that to deal with, and thankfully Derek didn’t add to it. He was just… there.

And even though he didn’t say so, Stiles was grateful.

They walked until dawn, when Stiles turned for home and Derek continued down the road without him. Neither had said a word.

**********************************

Stiles, curled up in his sunny corner of the couch, jerked out of a fitful doze when his phone started screaming. He fumbled for his phone on the end table and blinked numbly at the name ‘SCOTT’ flashing on the screen. For a heartbeat, he’d actually thought it would be someone else.

A traitorous part of him had wanted it to be.

“Hey… Scott,” Stiles answered haltingly. Even a simple greeting tumbled from him broken and wrong these days.

“Hey… how’s… uh… so, what’s up?”

Stiles chewed on his thumbnail, frustrated and irritated and not really sure why. “Really? ‘What’s up’? That’s the best you can come up with?” It felt perverse. Wrong. Like Scott was trying to pretend it hadn’t happened, that everything was okay. Well, it fucking wasn’t, and how dare he act like it would be. 

Scott’s end went dead quiet a moment, then he sighed. “I’m trying… I mean, what am I supposed to say?”

 _You don’t deserve to be here when Allison is gone_. Say what you really want to say, Scott.

Stiles shook his head. “I don’t know. This sucks.”

“Obviously.”

The silence became monstrous.

“So… why’d you call?” Stiles asked.

“I didn’t… since when do I need a reason to call you?”

Stiles tried to tuck up into a tighter ball in the corner of the couch. The sun had moved and his wedge of warmth had shrunk while he napped. He caught sight of his father out of the corner of his eye watching Stiles intently from the kitchen.

“You don’t,” Stiles said through gritted teeth. “But you haven’t called all summer.” It came out an accusation despite Stiles’ best intentions. If he had any. He couldn’t really say for sure anymore. He was all raw nerve… prolonged lack of sleep and a constant state of pain had whittled him down to the ugly root.

The bare bones of Stiles Stilinski, it turned out, was not a pretty thing.

“I… _dude_ ,” Scott breathed.

Stiles huffed. He should probably feel guilty. Or sorry. But all he had left was wounded animal. All he was anymore was a fox in a snare.

“Trust me, you didn’t want me calling you,” Scott said tersely, “I’ve been a _mess_. Allison’s _dead_. I think I’m entitled to a period of mourning. Jesus. Seriously, what the hell, man?”

Stiles rubbed the heel of his palm against his forehead, trying to grind out the headache. “That’s not… I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how did you mean it?”

Now Scott was pissed. His fuse was probably about as short as his friend’s these days. Clearly they didn’t need to be talking to each other. They were just making it worse. 

Stiles gripped his phone tighter. “I meant it…” he gave up, “I meant it however you want it to mean, Scott. Take it however you want.”

“I…” Scott stammered. Stopped. Then his voice came back hard. “I don’t think we’re ready to talk to each other yet.”

“No, probably not.”

The schism grew, the chasm widened, but Stiles was too shattered to fight his way to the other side where Scott was his own brand of broken.

Too much broken at once. Two broken things did not equal one whole.

“Bye.” Scott hung up without waiting for Stiles to respond.

Stiles lowered his phone and stared at it. He couldn’t fully fathom how that had gone so badly. When did he stop being able to talk to his best friend?

His phone buzzed in his hand with an incoming text message. It was from Scott.

_But you’re okay right?_

Stiles let out a breath. Not a sigh or a huff… more like deflating. He typed back _I’m alive._

Scott would probably take that the wrong way, too. Stiles debated sending it mere seconds before he hit the key. Scott could take it hard or easy, whatever… Stiles was too worn ragged to care.

**********************************

_Scott said you two talked today. Said it was rough. You want to talk about it?_

Stiles lay in bed staring at his phone and the text message from Lydia. He wasn’t sure how it felt knowing that apparently the communications’ blackout wasn’t wide-spread in their social group. The others were talking to each other. Everyone was just freezing out Stiles.

He bit his lip and typed out _Not with you_. He’d already upset Scott today… no reason to upset Lydia, too.

After overhearing Stiles’ conversation with Scott earlier, his dad had broached the idea of Stiles seeing a therapist. Right. Like there was a therapist in the country qualified to handle the mess in Stiles’ head left behind by the nogitsune. They’d just put him back in Eichen House.

Stiles would rather jump off a building.

There was a long lag between Stiles’ message and Lydia’s reply. _You sound angry_.

Stiles snorted. No shit. _Aren’t you?_

 _This isn’t about me. I’m worried about you_.

 _I’m fine_.

Lydia fired back _You’re not_.

Stiles mumbled aloud, “Yeah, well, neither are you,” and tossed his phone down on his bed. He sat up and looked out the window, at the blackness through the blinds, where the darkness beckoned.

He stood, grabbed his hoodie, and walked out the door.

**********************************

Derek was standing at the corner, as though they had an appointment and Stiles had kept him waiting. Stiles was strangely relieved to see him. Because Derek was someone he couldn’t hurt. His friends were invested. They cared. But Derek was… _Derek_. He was the closest to immune to Stiles’ damage as anyone could be.

Stiles reached the corner, and together the pair headed out into the night. They both knew the route by now.

Stiles zipped his hoodie up and shoved his hands in his pockets. Not that it mattered. Nothing made him warm. He wondered why Derek kept showing up, night after night. He wondered what the werewolf could be getting out of their walks. He sure as hell wasn’t going to ask… if Derek didn’t realize he was wasting his time, Stiles wasn’t going to be the one who pointed it out.

They walked side-by-side without speaking as always, like every night before. There was no reason to believe this night would be any different. 

Except Stiles, it seemed, was incapable of keeping his mouth shut that long.

“Derek… you’ve killed people.”

Derek glanced over at him with a look of mild surprise at the conversation-opener. When he didn’t say anything right away, Stiles turned a questioning expression toward the werewolf. Waiting. He expected a response. 

“And?” Derek asked warily.

“How do you… does it ever stop?”

“Does what stop?”

“The… _weight_.” The crushing, oh-god-I-can’t-breathe ache of knowing lives had ended because of him. All the days those people would not live stacked on top of Stiles and grinding him into a pulp. The debt of days on his back enough to snap him in half.

Derek studied Stiles far too closely, far too quietly, for far too long. “You didn’t kill anybody, Stiles.”

“Allison Argent might not agree with you.”

“Pretty sure she would.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Does it stop?”

Derek grunted and looked away. Stiles scowled. He didn’t think Derek would pull the ‘don’t upset Stiles, he’s unstable’ shit with him. If he thought he could count on one thing from Derek, it was brutal honesty… because Derek didn’t really care about Stiles’ feelings. Not enough to coddle him. Derek wasn’t the coddling type.

“It changes you,” Derek said at length, voice low, “and that never goes away. You’re never what you were before you…” Derek’s mouth twitched and he looked over thoughtfully at Stiles. He wasn’t looking at Stiles like he was just a kid. For once, the look in his eyes said they were near to equals. Almost equals with Derek Hale. That was a back-handed gift. “You get used to the new you.”

He wasn’t sure he wanted to get used to this Stiles, he didn’t _like_ this Stiles, but he could see he didn’t have a choice.

Stiles ran an anxious hand through his hair while Derek looked skyward, as if searching for the right way to say what was on his mind. That ‘how do I put this without you falling apart on me’ look.

“Stiles…” Derek said, like it was a preamble, like he was going to launch into a speech like everyone else.

And he couldn’t handle that. “Derek, stop. Just don’t.”

Derek quirked an eyebrow. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t ask me if I’m okay or want to know how you can help or say ‘I think you need to talk to someone’ or whatever it is you’re about to say.”

“Stiles…”

“No! God, why can’t you all just leave me alone? Why does everyone feel like they have to fix me? What if I _can’t_ be fixed?”

“ _Stiles_ …”

“I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I couldn’t save them! I’m sorry I’m not… and I can’t… it…” Oh shit. His lungs were seizing up, his heart was racing, his vision was getting spotty. He was going to have a panic attack. He was going to have a panic attack in the dead of night on the sidewalk with _Derek fucking Hale_ watching.

“Stiles!” Derek grabbed his shoulder and Stiles let out a yelp because it hurt. Everything hurt. It hadn’t stopped hurting. He was starting to get that it never would.

But the pain jarred him out of his building panic enough to focus on Derek.

And suddenly, it was pouring rain.

“I was just going to say ‘I think it’s about to rain’.” 

Oh.

Derek looked around to find a street sign, then nodded. “Come on, my car’s parked just around the corner.”

By the time they got there, both of them were soaked. Derek jumped in the driver’s seat while Stiles ducked into the passenger side. Once safe from the downpour, Stiles realized he was shaking.

Derek noticed, too. “Take off your jacket,” he bade as he craned around to reach into the back seat to grab a blanket.

Stiles fumbled with his hoodie zipper, fingers stubbornly refusing to cooperate. 

Patience was not one of Derek’s virtues. With a sigh, he reached over to do it for him.

Their hands touched and black tendrils snaked rapidly up Derek’s veins at the contact. He jerked his eyes up to Stiles. “You’re hurt.”

Stiles snatched his hands away from Derek’s.

Derek narrowed his eyes at Stiles, then quickly unzipped Stiles’ jacket. Stiles peeled out of it, threw the wet mess in the floorboard, and reached for the blanket in Derek’s hand. He refused to meet Derek’s eyes as he wrapped the blanket around himself. It had a musty/musky scent, part Derek and part rarely-used funk. Stiles shivered and held it tighter around his upper body. He made sure his bare arms were safely cocooned where Derek couldn’t touch them. Not that it mattered… the damage was done.

“What happened?” Derek asked.

Stiles let out a humorless laugh. “Um… a nogitsune?”

“You…” Derek scowled. “You mean you’ve been in pain this whole time?”

Stiles just nodded.

“Have you told anyone?”

“I…” he couldn’t talk about it. “I want to go home.”

There was a protracted silence and stillness before Derek moved to take Stiles home.

*******************************

When they got to the Stilinski house, Derek just followed Stiles inside. Stiles didn’t invite him in, but at the same time he didn’t try to kick Derek out. He just didn’t fight him when Derek was close on his heels from the car to the front door. He kind of figured the werewolf would say goodbye at the door and get back in his car and drive off.

But Derek followed him into the house, up the stairs, right into Stiles’ bedroom.

Which should have been weird, but Stiles felt like being weirded out would require some energy, and he was just fresh out.

“I, uh…” Stiles plucked at his wet t-shirt. “I should change.”

Derek was standing in the dark (maybe someone should have hit the lights), just quietly staring at Stiles. Creeper. At least that much hadn’t changed.

“Your dad still working late?” Derek asked while Stiles was rummaging around in his dresser for dry clothes.

“Yeah, uh…” Stiles sniffled. “He… he’ll probably be home around dawn.” He paused, staring down at the rumpled Batman t-shirt and black pajama pants in his hands. He hadn’t realized the two items he’d picked out until he was holding them, then when it registered he was kind of at a loss.

“Stiles?”

“Um… here.” He turned to hold both out to Derek. Derek’s eyebrows jumped. Stiles gestured at Derek’s wet clothes. “You’re… my grandma sent me these – poor woman never can get my size right. They should fit you.”

Derek reached out to take the clothes when Stiles realized their naked hands would come too close to touching. He flinched and hurried to set the clothes on top of the dresser instead. “So, there you go. I’m just going to…” he gestured toward the bathroom, grabbed clothes that would actually fit him, and slipped out of the bedroom.

He shut the bathroom door behind him and immediately turned his face to the left… blindly reaching out with his right hand until his fingers caught on the edge of the mirror and he opened the medicine cabinet. Not because he wanted medicine… just because he didn’t want to risk seeing himself.

Stiles undressed and toweled off before he put on the dry clothes. The chill of the rainwater made the ache in his body feel amplified. Everything just fucking _hurt_. He would have taken some Advil for the pain if he didn’t already know from experience it wouldn’t do any good. Whatever was wrong with him was not something over-the-counter pain meds could touch.

He honestly expected Derek to be gone when he got back to his room. The guy wasn’t really one for gestures. Stiles was sure he’d find the proffered clothes still on the dresser, a puddle on his floor, and Derek nowhere in sight.

So he drew up short when he walked into his room and found Derek there, changed into the t-shirt and PJ bottoms while his wet clothes were draped over Stiles’ computer chair to dry.

Then it got awkward.

“Look, um… sorry about back there,” Stiles stammered as he rubbed at his elbow, trying to massage out the ache. “It’s been a bad day and you got in the way.”

“If that’s an apology for losing your cool and yelling a little, keep in mind I hang out with werewolves. Our tantrums tend to involve claws, teeth, and broken bones. You’re going to have to do a lot better than that to get my hackles up.” Derek took a step closer to Stiles, lifting a hand.

Stiles flinched back, arms coming up in a defensive posture. “What are you doing?”

“You know.” Derek reached for him.

“Don’t,” Stiles croaked, but if Derek wanted to touch him, not much puny human Stiles could do to stop him. Derek closed his hand gently around Stiles’ wrist.

Black bled out of Stiles and into Derek. The pain was fit to burst out of Stiles’ skin… the second it had an outlet, it rushed through like an unclogged dam. Stiles could feel some of the ever-present ache easing as Derek took on some of his pain. 

He gripped Derek’s wrist with his free hand and tried to push Derek off. “Please, stop.”

“Why?”

Stiles squirmed free of Derek’s hold, and when Derek let him go Stiles held his own wrist where Derek had. “I… I’m actually kind of use to it. But if you do that, and it’s not as bad, then it’ll feel worse when you stop. So… just don’t, okay?”

Derek frowned at him. “Who knows?”

“Knows?”

“How bad it is.”

Stiles shook his head. Fuck, there was a knot in his throat like he might cry. He sniffled hard and clenched his jaw, resolute. “I’m fine.”

“You are far from fine.” 

“Okay… I’m not fine. But I’m doing the best I can.” Stiles felt proud for that. He was a disaster, _he_ knew that, but he was sparing his friends and family the burden. They didn’t know how awful he felt, and he intended to keep it that way.

“Is the pain why you’re not sleeping?” Derek asked.

Stiles gave a nod. Because yeah, it was _one_ of the reasons why he wasn’t sleeping. And Derek already knew about it, so he’d cop to that one. It was easier. Pain was less humiliating than the freak show in his head.

“Get in bed.”

“Ummm…”

“I can see you trying to think of some wise-ass remark, and I know you’re not really feeling up to it, so just save us both the uncomfortable attempt and skip it, okay? Keep your mouth shut and get in bed.”

“ _Bossy_ ,” Stiles grumbled, but there was something semi-threatening about Derek in take-charge mode. He was too tired to argue. He crawled under the covers and blinked when Derek went to the computer chair, dumped his wet clothes on the floor, and pulled the seat over beside the bed.

Derek sat down and reached out toward Stiles. Something in his expression, his presence, wouldn’t let Stiles move away. He dropped his hand down on Stiles’ forearm. The black ebbs of pain swam upstream.

“What are you doing?” Stiles whimpered.

“Just enough for you to sleep.”

Stiles shook his head, and damnit he knew tears were shining in his eyes but he couldn’t fucking help it. “I don’t…” He clenched his hands into fists and buried his face in his pillow. Weak. He was so goddamn _weak_. But that had been the problem from the start.

“Stiles…” Derek’s hand on his arm gave a gentle squeeze.

“I don’t deserve it.”

“I say you do.”

“It’s not up to you.”

“Want to bet?”

That actually made Stiles laugh. Broken and half a sob, but still a laugh. Yeah… that would be how Derek saw it. Whatever the problem, growl and roar and browbeat it into submission.

His body started to unlock… he didn’t realize that he’d been taut and tensed from pain even when trying to sleep until Derek pulled some of it away. Stiles started to feel very heavy. Like he might actually sleep. There was no telling how long his nightmares would allow it, but for now the ache in his entire body wasn’t denying him rest.

He sagged sleepily. “How long will you stay?” he asked softly, eyes droopy.

“As long as you’ll sleep.”

That probably wouldn’t be too long, but Stiles would take it.

**********************************

Miraculously, Stiles slept. Apparently his body was so exhausted that at the first potential for real sleep, even his nightmares wouldn’t let anything stand in the way. He wasn’t sure when Derek left, only that when he woke up around 3pm he was alone in his bedroom and he actually felt rested.

The pain was still there, and creeping back in, but for now it was manageable. He wasn’t really surprised that whatever Derek had done wasn’t permanent, but even a temporary reprieve was a gift horse he was not going to look in the mouth.

He padded downstairs, rubbing the sleep from his eye, to find his father in the kitchen.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty.”

“Morn’n, Dad,” Stiles yawned.

“Yeah,” the sheriff looked dramatically at his watched, “you missed that mark by a few hours. I’m glad you’re finally getting some sleep.”

“Mmmm… had some solid hours. Man, I needed them.”

His dad smiled. It was the first time he’d looked anything other than worried in weeks.

After wolfing down a late lunch (how about that, when the pain slacked a little he actually had an appetite underneath), he went back up to his bedroom. He spotted the Batman t-shirt and black pants on the foot of his bed.

Stiles smiled for no real reason, picked up the pajamas… then set them on top of his dresser within easy reach. Just in case.

**********************************

The next night, it hadn’t been more than ten minutes after the sheriff had left for work that there was a knock on the front door. Stiles couldn’t say he was surprised to find Derek Hale on his doorstep. His life had taken a drastic turn from just a couple of years ago when the last person who would be at his house at 10 o’clock at night was the infamous Hale.

“You forgot this,” Derek said by way of greeting, holding up the red hoodie Stiles had left in his car last night.

“Right, might need that.”

Derek shook his head and took it upon himself to come inside. “Not tonight you won’t. No walks today.”

“Bossy,” Stiles grumbled as he closed the door behind Derek. Then there was an awkward silence where Stiles felt… obligated. “Look, Derek, I…”

Derek turned to look at him.

“I just… well, I just… wanted to thank you. Yesterday. I didn’t –”

“If you’re about to tell me about how you didn’t deserve it, I’m just going to stop you right there.”

Stiles clicked his jaw shut.

Derek fidgeted. “You never got warm.”

“Geez, exactly how long did you sit there holding my hand?” Stiles asked awkwardly, trying to redirect the question.

Derek was having none of it. Freaking predatory single-minded wolf. “Long enough that you shouldn’t have still been cold to the touch.”

Stiles huffed and dropped his hoodie over the back of the couch. There didn’t seem to be a point lying to Derek. He was in this now. “Yeah, I don’t know what that’s about. Been that way since whatever Scott and Lydia did to get that bastard out of me.” He crossed his arms over his chest to ward off the cold, though it was really just a habit. It didn’t help.

“So you’ve been cold _and_ in pain this whole time and didn’t think it might be a good idea to tell _anybody_?”

“Yeah, well, maybe not everyone is as caring and sharing as you are.”

Derek snorted incredulously.

This was the point where Stiles would normally ditch out of the conversation by any means necessary, but somehow there wasn’t the same pressure talking to Derek. He wasn’t as invested, maybe? Like Stiles being broken wouldn’t break him.

Stiles shrugged and sat down on his end of the couch… even if the sun was gone. “Everyone just wants it to be over.”

Derek moved closer and sat down on the other end of the couch. “But it’s not.”

“It _is_. For Scott and Lydia and Isaac and my dad and everyone, it’s over.”

“And you?”

Stiles pulled the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch down to cover his legs. “Everyone did so much to save me. Allison _died_ to save me. Whatever is left of me, whatever this shit is…” he gestured at his body, encompassing the lingering effects of the nogitsune, “that’s my problem.”

From the glower on his face, Derek didn’t agree. “What about Scott?”

Stiles tensed. “What _about_ Scott?”

“He’d want to help.”

“Trust me, he doesn’t want to deal with this.” Their painful phone conversation was still a sore spot. No… neither one of them was in a place where they could take on the baggage the other one was toting. Stiles grimaced. “And he shouldn’t have to. He’s suffered enough. Least I can do is keep him out of this… fallout.” While Derek scowled and pinched his lips together like a grouchy grizzly bear, Stiles cocked his head. “What I don’t get is why you’re here.”

Derek frowned.

“Not that I don’t… I mean… thank you… but you have to have better things to do than watch me slowly unravel.”

“Is that what you think you’re doing?”

“Peter must be busting your chops,” Stiles joked, pointedly not answering Derek’s question.

“Peter doesn’t care either way… he took off.”

“Really?” Stiles blinked. “You don’t sound surprised.”

“I’m not. I don’t know if you noticed, but my uncle’s not the most stable individual.”

“Well,” Stiles shrugged theatrically, “I didn’t want to be the pot calling the kettle black or anything… I mean, I _have_ been in an institution. Probably still have my wristband ID in a drawer somewhere. Hell, I’m not entirely convinced I won’t end up back there when it’s all said and done.”

“You won’t.”

“Some days I’m not so sure,” Stiles muttered, more to himself than anything. And it was a scary thing, because it was something he’d thought before but never said aloud. Stiles picked at a loose thread on the throw blanket. “So… it’s just you at the loft?”

Derek nodded.

“Must be kind of boring. You’re, uh… you’re welcome to stay. But there’s not much to do here, either, since you’ve already ruled out a midnight stroll. Would you want to watch a movie?”

“I could be persuaded.”

**********************************

For three nights in a row, that was the way of things. As soon as the sheriff left for work, Derek was knocking on the door. They watched the original Star Wars trilogy, then moved on to Indiana Jones. The coffee table was strewn with coke cans and popcorn and chip crumbs. It felt so painfully normal, two guys hanging out, that Stiles kind of missed Scott and Isaac. Then that led to missing Lydia… and Allison.

After a while, Stiles tried not to think about his friends. He was a mess, and until he wasn’t they were better off without him.

What took Stiles by surprise was how accustomed he became to having Derek in his house. It wasn’t long before they were sitting close enough to each other all the time that Derek could reach over and touch Stiles. Which he did. Whenever Stiles looked like he was in pain, whenever he looked like he was holding himself stiffly because of the ache from head to toe, Derek would reach over and take the edge off. Not too much. Stiles wouldn’t let him take too much. Just a dancing of fingers over Stiles’ arm or the back of his hand, just enough to bleed off some of the discomfort so that Stiles didn’t feel like his spine was trying to fuse into one solid column of bone. Enough that he could breathe (Stiles didn’t realize how tight and constricted his breathing had become from living with pain constantly until it loosened its hold and he took a huge breath). He’d hum an acknowledgment, an unspoken thanks, and Derek would pull his hand back like it was nothing.

The pain-sharing touch didn’t just make the nights easier… they helped Stiles through the days, too. The residual effect of Derek’s touch lasted hours after he left. The pain would come back slowly, but the time when it was less was precious and immensely appreciated. It was enough to make Stiles feel like he might actually come out of this ordeal in one piece – more or less. At the very least, a few solid, duct-taped pieces instead of shards.

The second night, Derek took up residence in the chair next to Stiles’ bed just like he had the first night. Like before, he rested his hand on Stiles’ arm to keep him pain-free enough that he could get some sleep.

Stiles jerked awake at some ungodly hour (but not thrashing and screaming, thank god) and Derek was slumped over the bed, folded uncomfortably at the waist with his head pillowed on his arm where he’d dozed off grounding Stiles. His hand was still closed softly around Stiles’ forearm, but everything else about Derek looked twisted and painful.

So the third night, when Derek walked into Stiles’ bedroom and angled for the chair, Stiles said, “Don’t.”

Derek ruffled. “Stiles…”

“No, I mean do… do help me… but don’t sleep in that fucking chair.”

Derek’s eyebrows jerked upward when he caught Stiles’ meaning.

After he’d changed into the Batman pajamas, Derek climbed into bed with Stiles. There was a very uncomfortable few minutes of them both lying corpse-like on their backs before Derek grunted, turned on his side toward Stiles, and pushed at his shoulder. It wasn’t long before he’d man-handled Stiles on to his side and Derek scooted closer to spoon him.

“Oh, um, _whoa_ ,” Stiles twitched nervously, “that, um… that’s… okay…” he squeaked when Derek’s arm fell over his side.

“Complaints?” Derek asked in a tone like he was daring Stiles to object.

“No, no… just kind of weird… spooning with a werewolf.” Derek huffed a breath into the back of his neck. Stiles shivered… then he kind of melted back against his bedmate when something else registered. “Wow… you’re warm.”

“You’re not.” Derek’s hand pulled back to grope at Stiles’ ribcage. 

“Hey, hey, hey!” Stiles squirmed. “I’m ticklish, all right? Watch the hands.”

“How much weight have you lost?” Derek growled. 

Oh, right. Ribs. “Some… bear in mind I was pretty skinny to start with, though.”

“Yeah, you didn’t have any to lose,” he groused, snarling under his breath.

“Well, I’d heard such great things about the evil Japanese fox spirit diet, figured I’d give it a try. Swimsuit season was right around the corner and all.”

Derek gripped at Stiles’ side.

“Stop it!” Stiles wiggled.

“What can we do about it?” Derek asked, loosening his fingers. And it wasn’t like when his dad asked how to help. Derek spoke like it was separate from Stiles, an enemy they could both fight, instead of trying fix something inherently wrong with Stiles.

It made a world of difference.

“You’re… it’s already better,” Stiles answered. “When I was hurting, when it was _bad_ , I wasn’t hungry. And sometimes I couldn’t keep food down. But it’s getting better.”

Derek grunted and looped his arm back around Stiles, looped it around until he could close his fingers around Stiles’ wrist. The black flowed as the pain forced into one body was shared by two.

What was unusual was that there weren’t any macho threats about no one hearing a word about what they were doing. Derek didn’t threaten to rip out Stiles’ throat with his teeth if anyone found out about them sharing a bed. Stiles didn’t have a fit about it, either. It just wasn’t an issue. The benefit to Stiles’ health, physical and mental, outweighed all that pointless posturing.

It was just something Stiles needed, and he actually let himself accept the help Derek was offering.

**********************************

The fourth night was not a good night. But Stiles had had three good ones… it was bound to get rough.

He didn’t remember the nightmare. Not clearly. He just knew there was pain and terror and death and the nogitsune, and the nogitsune was _him_ , _he_ was hurting people, _let me in **let me in LET ME IN**_ , and Stiles woke up screaming.

His father rushed into his room at his son’s cries.

Stiles was too out of it at first to realize that his father was holding him, keeping him from hurting himself, while Derek was there in the bed, in Batman pajamas, sitting clear of father and son and watching the spectacle with wide eyes.

When Stiles could breathe again, when his brain kicked itself free of the grip of his night terror, he realized ‘ _shit_ … Dad… Derek.’

His dad was going to kill him. Both of them.

“He’s okay,” Stiles heard his father saying. “He’ll calm down after a minute. Just hold on to him, talk to him. Make sure he knows he’s safe.”

Stiles choked on a breath when he realized his father was _coaching_ Derek on how to deal with Stiles after a night terror.

That jump-started his higher functions and had him trying to get free. “I’m fine… I’m okay…” Stiles struggled out of his father’s arms. His dad let him go and Stiles turned to gape at his father and Derek both sitting on his bed watching him. They were both so focused on _him_ , all but oblivious to each other in their consuming concern for Stiles, and it made his stomach clench.

“Oh, god…” Stiles ran for the bathroom.

He made it just in time, leaning over the toilet and throwing up. Since he’d been eating recently, he actually had something to bring up. He wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. 

When his stomach finished heaving, he curled up on the bathroom floor in a cold sweat. He was kind of scared to leave. He wasn’t sure what he’d find when he left the bathroom.

His dad caught Derek in his bed. They were _in bed together_ , and his father saw them. It wasn’t what it looked like, of course, but what were the odds his father would buy that line? Did any parent of a teenager? 

Shit.

His father would freak out, and he’d kick Derek out, and the thing was Stiles didn’t know how he’d make it through the night without him anymore. Exactly what he’d been afraid of happening had happened. He got used to it. He got used to the freedom from pain Derek could give him, he got used to the body heat wrapped around him that came so close to chasing away the cold in his bones, and he didn’t know how the hell he could function without it.

He didn’t want to face that reality, but he couldn’t hide in the bathroom forever. And if his dad kicked Derek out, he at least wanted to say goodbye.

Stiles levered himself up off the floor, his body aching and head pounding, and shuffled toward the bathroom door. He accidentally glanced up and saw himself in the mirror.

That was not his face. It wasn’t. It was the nogitsune’s shadow. The remnants of Stiles. The trashed shell. The leftovers.

In a fit of anger, Stiles hauled off and punched the mirror. It cracked and splintered under his knuckles, leaving pieces of Stiles looking back at him.

And left him with a bleeding hand.

Stiles closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then he opened the bathroom door to face the music.

He heard voices downstairs and followed them down.

He found his father and Derek in the kitchen, looking… well, not at all like they were going to tear each other’s throats out. And Dad’s gun was nowhere to be seen.

Stiles blinked, confused. “Hey, um…”

They both looked at him.

Derek frowned immediately. “Why do I smell blood?”

“Stiles, your hand,” his father moved toward his son.

“Yeah, um… the mirror broke.” Honestly, his hand was the least of his worries. He was more worried about this episode of the twilight zone that was unfolding in his house. Stiles looked between his father and Derek, confused and wary, as both came toward him.

“Ah, damnit,” Stiles’ dad muttered when he saw the damage, blood dripping from Stiles’ hand on to the kitchen tile. “This might need stitches.”

“No!” Stiles jerked back. “No hospitals.”

“Okay… okay, no hospitals.” Thankfully, his dad seemed to understand why Stiles wanted nowhere near a hospital. With a frustrated scowl, he asked, “Will you let Melissa look at it?”

Scott’s mom?

Stiles nodded.

The sheriff left to call Melissa McCall. In his place, Derek came up to him. “Let me see that.” Stiles offered his hand to the werewolf. Derek snarled when he got a good look at it. “What were you thinking?”

“That wasn’t me in the mirror.”

Derek blinked at that, took it in, then just gravely nodded. He went to touch Stiles’ hand, seemed to reconsider given the state of it, then he reached up to place his hand on Stiles’ upper arm. The acute feeling of pain in his hand started to slack immediately. Stiles sighed gratefully.

The sheriff came back with his phone in hand. “She should be here in a few minutes.” He looked up at Stiles and Derek, standing close to each other in sleep clothes, bare feet, and blatantly touching.

“Dad –”

“Mr. Stilinski –”

“Both of you, quiet.” He took a breath, ruffled a hand through his hair, then he continued, “I’m not mad.”

“What, really?” Stiles asked incredulously. “You find me in bed with Derek Hale and that’s just okay by you?”

Derek shot Stiles a look.

“I saw you two together yesterday morning when I got home. And I’ll admit, at first, I wanted to rip Derek’s balls off.”

“ _Dad_!”

“We weren’t doing anything,” Derek argued. “We haven’t _done_ anything.”

“No, you did something all right.” He looked directly at Derek. For a moment, it was challenging, then the hardness faded. It actually turned into an expression that looked… grateful? “And whatever you did, it let Stiles sleep.” A sad smile pulled at the older man’s lips. “Did you know that was the first time I’ve seen Stiles look restful since… since before all this crap started?” He shrugged. “Sure, it took turning around and going for a drive to clear my head – which, by the time I got back, Derek was already gone – but…” Sheriff Stilinski steadied himself with a breath and looked Derek right in the eye. “I’m not blind. I see what you’ve done for my son. You’ve _helped_. I’ve been trying everything I can think of to help Stiles get through this – because I know he’s having a hard time, even if he won’t admit it – but nothing I do works. Nothing has helped him. Except you.”

Stiles swallowed and looked sideways at Derek… Derek who had not taken his hand off Stiles the whole time. Derek who was inarguably standing protectively close to Stiles. Stiles wondered if Derek even noticed he was doing it.

Stiles’ father rubbed his hands over his face. “Under normal circumstances, this…” he gestured emphatically between Derek and Stiles, “ _this_ would _not_ happen. Over my dead body would this happen, you get that?” His next words he aimed at Derek. “You are age-inappropriate for my son, not to mention dangerous. Your family is bad news, and you get my son into more trouble than he does on his own, which was already _a lot_.”

There was no attempt to argue any of those points from Stiles or from Derek.

After an almost painful-looking pause, he glanced over at his son and continued in a tone of surrender, “But if Derek can help… if having him around means you’re eating and sleeping and actually getting better… if it means I’m getting my son back, then… then Derek’s welcome here anytime.”

“Dad, that’s, um…”

“And for the love of god, you two better be using protection!”

“Dad!”

“Now…” the sheriff pointed a finger toward the front door, “I’m going to get some air and wait for Melissa before I reconsider neutering your,” he seemed to stall on the word, “… boyfriend.”

“Wow, that’s… thanks, but totally not necessary!” Stiles called uselessly after his father. When they were alone, he looked over at Derek and winced. “Sorry.”

“For what?” Derek sounded remarkably unbothered by the entire fiasco, which was shocking.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe my dad assuming we’re sleeping together in the way that we _weren’t_ sleeping together but that he _thinks_ we’re sleeping together? Or, you know, the threatening to castrate you part.”

“He’s your father. I don’t blame him.”

“Yeah, but turns out he’s totally fine with it. How about that? I mean, not that there’s any ‘it’ for him to be fine with, but… you know.” Stiles shook his head, astounded. “Don’t worry, I’ll talk to him and sort it all out, set him straight so to speak. Or set us ‘straight’ in his mind, or whatever.”

Derek shrugged like it didn’t matter to him either way.

“You don’t look bothered by this. Why aren’t you bothered by this?”

Derek actually fucking _smiled_. Not a megawatt grin or anything, but a definite twitch at the corners of his mouth. “Because you’re rambling a mile a minute right now.”

“Oh… sorry.”

“No… it’s the first time you’ve sounded like _you_ in a long time. And all it took was a mistaken gay relationship with an ‘age-inappropriate’ werewolf.”

Stiles gaped. Then he narrowed his eyes when he saw Derek’s shoulders shaking. “You’re… you’re laughing, aren’t you? You _are_. You think this is _funny_.”

“It kind of is.”

Stiles opened his mouth to argue… then he chuckled. “Yeah… okay, maybe it is.” He looked down at his bleeding hand. “I am sorry about the mirror, though.”

“I get it,” Derek replied with a dismissive shrug, and Stiles thought that he probably did. If there was anyone with as many demons as Stiles, it would be their resident brooding werewolf.

“Want to talk about the nightmare?” Derek asked softly.

“Not really.”

And the wonderful thing about Derek was that he accepted that answer.

When Melissa arrived, she found Stiles sitting at the kitchen table with Derek standing behind him, keeping one hand on Stiles’ neck so Melissa had room to work on his hand. The sheriff looked kind of sick at the way Derek was pawing over his son, but in his new spirit of total acceptance he said nothing.

While Melissa cleaned Stiles’ hand, she looked up at him searchingly. “Haven’t seen you around this summer.”

“Yeah, you know…” Stiles shrugged one shoulder. What could he say? Dead friends really put a damper on summer festivities? That he didn’t know how to look Scott in the eye without seeing the ghost of Allison behind them?

“We’ve missed you. Summer’s not the same without you and Scott stuck to each other like glue.”

Stiles chewed on his lip guiltily.

Derek crowded closer to Stiles’ back, in full-on intimating werewolf mode and staring down pointedly at Melissa. Stiles surprised himself when he actually leaned back into Derek. The solid heat of him was unexpectedly calming.

Scott’s mother returned to her work with quiet aplomb for Derek’s posturing. Eventually, she asked Stiles gently, her eyes moving briefly up to Derek and back to Stiles as she did, “Are you worried Scott won’t be okay with it?” No need to really ask what ‘it’ she was talking about – no doubt his dad filled her in on Stiles’ ‘relationship status’ with Derek.

“It’s not that,” Stiles mumbled, then his eyes moved quickly to her, “but please don’t tell him!” Stiles had to get to Scott and explain what was really going on before this ‘Derek is my werewolf boyfriend’ story got out of control.

“I won’t, I promise… that needs to come from you. But I don’t think you have to worry. Scott thinks of you as a brother. He wouldn’t judge you.”

The thing was, if there _was_ any coming out of the closet to be done, Stiles knew Scott _would_ be okay with it.

He really had a great friend in Scott. He had to fix that friendship. He would. When he was less of a train wreck, it was top on his list. But he’d just busted his hand in the middle of the night by punching a mirror, so he probably wasn’t up for repairing anything yet.

By the time his hand was bandaged and Melissa left, Stiles was weary… in body and mind. He just wanted to sleep. It was weep-worthy relief knowing that sleep was an option again.

“Come on,” Derek said as he took hold of Stiles by the wrist to lead him back toward the bedroom.

“Derek,” the sheriff interjected.

Both boys turned to Stiles’ dad.

He looked torn for a moment – his fatherly instincts no doubt railing at his underage son heading upstairs to sleep with a grown man; he probably spoke on gut reaction before his brain even had a say – but the extenuating circumstances trumped all conventions. In the end, he just said, “Take care of him.”

Derek’s hand tightened fractionally around Stiles’ wrist. He nodded. “I will.” Then Derek was taking Stiles back to his room.

It was too easy – _too easy_ – to get into bed with Derek and fall asleep with the guy spooned around him.

**********************************

“Can I ask you something?”

Derek lay sprawled on his stomach on Stiles’ bed, Stiles half-draped over the werewolf’s back. They’d woken up like that half an hour ago, and neither one had bothered to move.

“Hmmm?” Derek hummed, the sound vibrating up through Stiles’ cheek.

“Why aren’t you freaking out about this?”

Derek turned his head to look over at Stiles quietly.

“Dude, my dad thinks we’re a couple. So does Scott’s mom. And you just… that doesn’t bother you at all, from what I can tell. Do you just not care _that_ much?”

“You know better than that.” Derek scolded.

“Well, then… uh…”

Derek rolled his eyes. “I don’t have a giant mancrush on you, either.”

“Then I’m confused.”

Derek moved and Stiles sat up to let him. Derek flipped over on to his back and studied Stiles a minute before answering. “People have had the wrong idea about me one way or another for most of my life, so it stopped bothering me a long time ago. As far as your dad goes… this helps you, right?” Derek made a waving gesturing between them and the bed.

“Absolutely.” In fact, ‘help’ was a drastic understatement of what it had done for Stiles.

“Well, your father’s okay with it. He’s got it wrong, but as long as he’s allowing it, does it matter? I want you better, Stiles.”

“Why?”

Derek gave him a look like ‘wow, how big an asshole do you think I am?’

But Stiles was not letting it go. “Come on… bringing me chicken noodle soup would be one thing. Sleeping in my bed and snuggling me… that’s another level. And you and I… we were never all that chummy. Sometimes, I kind of thought you wanted to kill me. So… what gives?”

Derek just looked Stiles in the eye… until he broke and looked away first.

“There _is_ something else, isn’t there?” Stiles prodded.

“You won’t like it.”

Stiles’ eyebrows rose. “Dude, I’m not exaggerating here when I say you may have saved my… well, if not my life _definitely_ my sanity, with what you’ve done. That’s huge. There’s nothing you can say that’s going to cancel out that. So come on,” he swatted Derek’s shoulder with the back of his hand, “caring and sharing time.”

Derek huffed but eventually sat up to put a little more distance between them. He hesitated still, looking off to the side. “It’s hard to explain if you’ve never been in a pack.”

“You mean like Scott and Isaac and…”

“No. That’s…” Derek made a face best called ‘biting into a lemon’ face. “Scott’s pack is a mess. It’s not run by an experienced alpha, and it shows. It’s not at all what a real pack is like. When Allison…” Derek paused, aware of the minefield he was treading when it came to the late huntress. “Scott’s pack was fractured already, but her death blew it apart. Everyone isolated themselves. That’s not pack behavior. A real pack closes ranks. It’s close-knit. It’s… tactile.”

There was a lull when Stiles started to put together what Derek was getting out of their cuddling.

“Lone werewolves are not happy campers, are they?” Stiles guessed.

“We’re not _made_ for it,” Derek blurted, like it had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for ages, dying to get out. Dying for someone to ask him how he _felt_. But how long had it been since anyone actually cared how Derek Hale felt about anything? Probably too long. Probably before the fire. “We’re supposed to be part of a pack,” Derek growled. He clamped his mouth shut, surly at his outburst, then he calmed and looked toward Stiles. “At first, it was about saving you. You are Scott’s best friend, and Scott’s my ‘pack’… such that it is. If there was anything I could do, I had to try. But the contact, sharing a den, sleeping in the same bed…”

“You made me your pack.” Stiles knew he didn’t understand the gravity of that, he _couldn’t_ , but the look on Derek’s face told him a lot. In werewolf world, it was a big deal.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I didn’t intend for that to happen. But once it did, I didn’t want to lose it. It’s been a long time since I…” Derek broke off mid-sentence, like even with everything he’d confessed, saying _that_ would be too much.

The wounded sound of Derek’s voice actually made something in Stiles’ chest hitch. He wanted to make it better. He wanted to take away Derek’s pain. 

Fuck, maybe _he’d_ made Derek his pack, too.

“Does that… so did you steal me from Scott’s pack? How does that work?”

Derek gave Stiles a wary look at the calm attitude Stiles was taking on the subject. He was probably just as puzzled that Stiles wasn’t angry about being poached from Scott’s pack as Stiles had been baffled when Derek wasn’t mad being mistaken for Stiles’ lover. “Werewolves can change packs, it happens, but they can only belong to one at a time.”

“Okay… so….”

“It means when you’re ready to rejoin Scott’s pack, this stops,” Derek said tersely, waving at the bed in frustration. “We can’t do this if you’re his.”

“Whoa, okay, first of all… I don’t belong to Scott. Secondly… I mean, aren’t you in Scott’s pack, too? Shouldn’t we all just be one big happy wolfy family?”

“If Scott ran something resembling a normal pack, yes. We could be close because everyone in the pack is close. But Scott’s pack is… unusual. And this, us sharing a bed, is usual pack behavior. As long as this goes on and as long as Scott’s pack is so split up, I’m going to see it as us and them.”

Stiles looked down at the sheets. “So you’re saying I have to choose.”

“You’ll pick Scott. And that’s okay. But you asked why I’m not freaked out about the touchy-feely stuff. It’s because you’re my pack. My _real_ pack.”

Stiles was going to have to give that a lot of thought.

“I should go,” Derek said as he moved to get off the bed.

“Wait! You… you’re coming back, right?”

Derek stopped to look intently at Stiles. “I’ll come back as long as you need me.” His eyes shuttered. “As long as you’ll let me.”

“Okay. Good. Yeah, definitely come back.”

**********************************

What Derek told him stuck with Stiles. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Or what it might mean.

Him and Derek, a pack.

It probably said a lot about how lonely Derek actually was. How lonely he’d probably been since the fire. He said the close contact was usual pack behavior… Derek probably grew up always tangled with siblings and cousins. They probably slept and played together like a litter of puppies, shoving and hugging and wrestling in a ball of pack happiness. 

And then he lost them all.

Stiles never thought about how much of Derek’s gruff exterior all this time was just sadness. Loneliness.

So much so that when he stuck around to help Stiles, his werewolf brain latched on to him. Made him pack. Made Stiles the thing he’d been missing for years.

But now that left Stiles with a hard decision. He couldn’t belong to two packs. He had to pick one.

Scott had been his ‘pack’ since before any of this werewolf crap happened. Since they were kids. They were brothers. They’d been through so much together.

But Derek had saved Stiles’ mind. He’d been an anchor when Stiles was lost. Could he just thank Derek for all he’d done and pull away?

Bigger question, did he _want_ to?

He was contemplating that very question while sitting out on the front porch when he heard a familiar voice call his name.

Scott was walking up to his house. “Hey… I just,” Scott stopped at the foot of the porch steps and put his hands in his pockets. “I wanted to see if you were okay.”

Stiles stood and moved toward the steps. Loaded question if there ever was one. But he didn’t feel like imploding. Scott was here and wanting answers and Stiles wasn’t on a countdown to reactor overload. That was progress. “What do you mean?”

“My mom came home in the middle of the night and I could smell your blood on her. She wouldn’t tell me what happened. I was worried.”

“Oh yeah, that.” Stiles showed him his bandaged hand. “Just… got into an argument with the bathroom mirror.”

Scott frowned, opened his mouth to ask something, then didn’t. He looked down at his feet, shuffling awkwardly.

Someone needed to make the move. Scott needed to come up the stairs or Stiles needed to go down them. Someone needed to close the gap.

“So…” Stiles wanted to take the first step. He wanted to. But his feet wouldn’t move.

“So how are you?” Scott asked hopefully.

Stiles thought about that for a moment. “I’m better.” And it was actually the truth.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean… not completely. Obviously, I’m punching mirrors, but… I think I might be okay. Eventually.” For the first in a long time, Stiles told someone that and actually believed it himself.

“Dude, that’s great.” Scott twitched forward but stopped.

“What about you? Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Scott swallowed. “I mean, I miss her, you know? I’ll always miss her. She was… pretty amazing.”

Stiles nodded. Then he moved down a step.

Scott’s eyes brightened and he started to smile… tentative. Hopeful.

Stiles took the last two steps. He ended up engulfed in a Scott McCall hug. Stiles put his arms around Scott in return. And it felt good. He’d missed his friend.

Clearly the feeling was mutual. Scott squeezed tighter. “Dude, I’ve missed you… it hasn’t been the same with-” he stiffened and pulled back to look strangely at Stiles.

“What?”

“Nothing, you… Derek’s scent is all over you.”

Damn that werewolf sense of smell. Time to man up and spill. “Well, yeah, he’s been… he’s been sleeping over.”

“Sleeping over. Derek has.”

“Yep.”

“Derek _Hale_.”

“That’s the one.”

“Okay…” Scott cocked his head, confused, and sniffed again. “When you say ‘sleeping over’, you mean…”

“Just what I said. He’s stayed the night pretty much every night this week.”

Scott scowled and wrinkled his nose. “Has he been sleeping in the _bed_ with you? You reek of him.”

“As a matter of fact…”

Scott’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?”

Stiles just gave Scott a challenging look. It was the scent of Derek that probably convinced Scott that Stiles was not joking about this.

Scott took a half-step back. “Wow… um… I don’t know what to say… are you two…?”

“No, but both my dad and your mom think we are, so that’s not awkward or anything. Dad caught us in bed together last night and gave us the condom lecture and everything. It was horrifying.”

Scott kind of squawked and then cleared his throat. His brows knit and he studied Stiles oddly. He was holding himself uneasily around Stiles, discomfited and edgy. Stiles had a good guess why. He probably sensed somehow that Stiles had joined a new pack, but he didn’t know that’s what he was picking up on. He was starting to look kind of agitated.

“Scott, listen… before you say anything, I just… you should know that Derek has helped me. So much. More than you can imagine. I was… it was _bad_ , and he found me out walking in the middle of the night, and he brought me home, and he stayed, and if not for him, I honestly think I would have lost my mind. Now I think… I honestly think I’m going to be okay. But only because of Derek.”

Scott gaped. “Stiles, I… I didn’t know it was that bad. You should have called me.”

Stiles shook his head. “You couldn’t have done it. I love you man, but we were both… you couldn’t have handled my problems on top of yours. _Believe me_. I was a disaster. I still am, but I’m working on it.” No, that wasn’t right. “We’re working on.”

“We… as in you and Derek.”

“Exactly.”

Scott nodded, but the concept was still clearly bothering him. He pursed his lips. “I don’t… I mean, I’m glad he’s been able to help you. That’s great. Whatever you need, you know? Whatever it takes. But… I can’t explain why I still don’t _like_ it…”

“I actually have an answer for that one.”

Scott waited expectantly.

“So… apparently Derek’s a big softie, because all the cuddles and snuggling got to him and rewired his little werewolf brain and made him make me his pack. As in, you know… not part of yours anymore.”

Scott’s nostrils flared. “He _stole_ you?” The werewolf stepped closer to Stiles, sniffed… then stepped back. His eyes went red. “You’re right… I feel like I shouldn’t even be this close to you. I’m going to kill him!”

Oh hell no. “You’re not going to touch him.”

“He had no right!”

“He had every fucking right!”

Scott blinked, startled at the outburst.

Stiles glowered. “He didn’t mean to turn us into a two-man pack. It was a byproduct of saving me. And he’s okay with me rejoining your pack when this is over,” Stiles took a steeling breath, “if I decide to.”

“If you…” Scott looked gut-punched. “You’re considering staying with his pack?”

“I might be.”

Scott looked devastated.

“You and I will always be friends, Scott… nothing will change that. But I… I might _need_ this. Can you understand that? You’re my best friend, we’re going to be giving each other a hard time when we’re fifty, but I might need Derek as my pack.”

For a long moment, Scott just looked at Stiles. Stiles stood for the scrutiny, unwavering.

At last, Scott’s eyes returned to their normal color and he visibly sagged. “It’s your decision, Stiles. If you say you need this, then you should have it. I want you better more than I want you in my pack.”

Stiles smiled thinly. “I know… that’s why we’re friends. But this is up to me. And if I decide to stay with him, it doesn’t mean I don’t want you around anymore. It just… it just means maybe I need him around more.”

Scott took a deep breath and nodded. “Okay. Whatever you need to do, I’m okay with that. Just… call me later, okay?” Still be in my life. Still be my best friend. Still hang out with me. Still be there when I need you.

“Count on it.”

**********************************

When Stiles’ dad got home from work and called him downstairs for dinner, Stiles came up short in the dining room when he saw three places set.

“Hey, kiddo,” his father greeted warmly, then he cleared his throat awkwardly and added, “so, where’s Derek?”

Stiles blinked. “Um… oh, he usually comes by later.” He looked up at his dad. “Actually, like, pretty much five minutes after you’d leave for the late shift. Which, you’re not on anymore, so…” Stiles didn’t really know when Derek would turn up now, but he knew it would be before night fell. He wouldn’t leave Stiles to get through that alone.

The sheriff visibly forced himself to not be bothered by any of that. “Okay, well… if you want to call him, he’s welcome to have dinner with us.”

That sounded epic amounts of awkward, but he had to give his father credit for trying. “Well, I’m not sure what he’s doing right now, but I’ll text him.” After shooting off a quick _about to have dinner if you want to join. Dad invited_ to Derek’s phone – having no clue if Derek would show up for Dinner with Dad, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Derek opted out of that (nor would he blame him) – then moved to the table where boxes of fried chicken and mashed potatoes were set out.

They’d barely filled their plates and sat down to eat when his dad asked, “Stiles… listen, this thing with Derek…”

Stiles stopped chewing and looked up, a piece of chicken hanging out of his mouth.

His dad hissed through his teeth. “I just have to ask, what _is_ this thing with Derek? I mean, you two…” he made some vague hand gestures and some not-so-vague hand gestures.

“Oh! It’s…” Stiles swallowed hard before he choked on his food. “Well, it’s… I’m not really sure how to explain it, actually. It’s complicated.”

“Right… I’m sure. But…” The sheriff grimaced. “Just that it was kind of a shock finding you in bed with him. I always figured you were on the other team. Like, _firmly_ in the liking-girls camp. I’m talking interested-in-any-girl-with-a-pulse type. Or not, pulse negotiable –” 

“Ew, Dad.”

“And I just… I hope I never gave you the impression your… preference… would be a problem with me. I am _fine_ with you…” more embarrassing hand gestures.

“Yeah, no, Dad, it’s cool. You never…” Stiles would not join his father in the hand gestures of fornication. He would _not_. “We’re good.”

“Right. Good.” His father looked like he was trying to pass a kidney stone. “So, Derek…”

“Oh my god,” Stiles muttered, sitting up in his chair. “Okay, Dad, the thing is, Derek’s…” He was what? Stiles’ friend? It was more than that. Stiles’ pack? Stiles barely understood that and what all it meant, so it was unlikely his dad would. Snuggle buddy? That was just emasculating, because there was some badass life-saving going on, too.

Stiles looked up at his dad, and damn the guy was really trying. He was watching Stiles, all open and accepting and non-judgmental.

“There’s more to Derek than you think, Dad. More than I thought. He’s a good guy. I don’t want to be all melodramatic or anything, but he’s gotten me through hell.”

That hit his dad in the gut, judging by the look on his face. “I wish I could have done more, son, I _tried_ –”

“No! I didn’t mean… you did everything you could. You’ve been awesome. I love you for that. What Derek did… he was the only one who could do it. And I…” Stiles looked down at his plate, searching for the right words. Instead of trying to explain things even he didn’t understand, he decided to just talk about what he knew for certain. “Derek’s going to be around for quite a while, if I have anything to say about it.” Maybe forever. Right now, Stiles couldn’t fathom going back to the standoffish quasi-friendship he had with Derek before. He’d go out of his mind trying to go back to that.

If that meant he’d already chosen his pack, well…

“Stiles… as little as a week ago, I was afraid I was going to lose you. I know the nogitsune was gone, but you were… I could see I was still losing you. That scared the crap out of me. I can’t lose you. I couldn’t bear it. But I don’t feel like I am anymore. And if the difference between then and now comes down to Derek… he can stay as long as you want him to.”

“Careful with the open-ended invitations, Dad,” Stiles joked.

Sheriff Stilinski wasn’t smiling. “I mean it. As long as you want. Our home is his home.”

Stiles’ jaw dropped.

“I appreciate that, Mr. Stilinski,” came a low voice from the living room.

Stiles jumped and squeaked as he turned to watch Derek approach from the direction of the front door.

“Derek, come for dinner?” Stiles’ father asked.

“If the invitation’s still open.” Derek came up beside Stiles and rested a hand lightly on his shoulder. He looked way calmer and more composed than Stiles, who still felt like his heart was in his throat.

“Grab some chicken and have a seat.”

**********************************

“You didn’t tell your dad.”

“Geez!” Stiles startled when Derek seemed to appear in the open bathroom doorway from thin air while Stiles was brushing his teeth. Which was actually kind of harder than one would think without a mirror. He glanced over at Derek, dressed for bed in the now-familiar Batman t-shirt and pajama pants. Stiles did a double-take at Derek’s bare feet, because it was that more than anything that said he was staying.

Stiles leaned over the sink and spit out his mouthful of toothpaste froth. “Exactly how much of my conversation with my dad did you hear?”

“Enough.” Derek crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “You didn’t ‘set him straight’ like you said you were going to.”

Stiles rinsed to stall for time. “No, I… honestly, Derek, I’m not sure what this,” he waved between them, “is, and if I don’t know then how the hell am I supposed to explain it to my dad?”

Derek just lifted his eyebrows.

“And since you didn’t care if he thought that, I just thought I’d take some time to work it out before I had to explain it to someone.” Someone who wasn’t a werewolf, anyway. He’d told Scott it was a pack-thing because _also a werewolf_ , but he wasn’t even sure how much Scott understood – since he was apparently a pretty shitty werewolf, according to Derek.

Stiles frowned. “Are you changing your mind about not caring if my dad thinks we’re…”

“Just trying to figure out where your head’s at.”

“There be monsters, my friend,” Stiles joked… but something dark settled over him in its wake. It would be funny if it hadn’t once been _literally_ true. And the evil might be gone, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t left behind some ugly shit for Stiles to deal with. He was damaged goods by anyone’s definition.

“Stop that,” Derek chided (actually pretty gently) and reached out to grip Stiles by the back of the neck and man-handle him toward the bedroom.

“My god, so _bossy_ ,” Stiles griped, but he went without a fight.

Once ensconced in Stiles’ bedroom, Derek made straight for the bed and climbed in while Stiles went to dresser to find a clean shirt to sleep in. “I talked to Scott today.”

“I know.”

“You…?” he looked toward Derek, sprawled on his bed like he owned it, who touched the side of his nose tellingly. “Oh, right… werewolf sense of smell. Which, speaking of, Scott picked up _your_ smell right away. He said I reeked of you.”

“You do.”

Stiles snorted and changed into an old, ratty shirt to sleep in – no points for style but all the points for comfort. “You don’t sound at all sorry about that.”

“I’m not. You smell like you should smell to me.”

“You mean I smell like I’m your pack.”

Derek nodded. “Goes both ways, you know.”

“You mean you stink of _eau de Stiles_?” Stiles chuckled a little. Something about a big bad werewolf covered in his scent was trippy.

“Scott wasn’t happy,” Derek said. Not even a question.

Stiles shook his head. “Not particularly.”

“Did you explain to him that it’s only temporary?” It was impossible to read anything in Derek’s tone, and he probably practiced a lot to get that down to such a fine art.

“Well,” Stiles hedged, pointedly not looking at Derek, “hypothetically speaking… what if it wasn’t?”

Derek went alert at once. “Stiles?” Stiles looked down at his hands, picking absently at the edge of the bandages on his busted knuckles just so he wouldn’t have to face Derek.

“Stiles…”

“You said…” Biting the bullet, Stiles turned to face the werewolf in his bed. “You said if I went back to Scott’s pack, you couldn’t stay over anymore, right?”

“No. It’s a matter of territory.”

“And canoodling with a member of another werewolf’s pack would be like infidelity? Like sleeping with another man’s wife?”

Derek made a face. “That’s a very human way to look at it… but sort of.”

“Okay, well… what if I don’t want you to not stay? What if…” Stiles fidgeted, “what if I don’t think I can do this without… _this_?” He gestured at Derek, and when the werewolf just gave him the eyebrows, Stiles huffed, “I mean what if I need you? No, not what if… I do. _I need you_.” Stiles looked away anxiously. “That’s not really fair to you, but there it is. Weak, scrawny Stiles can’t deal with his shit on his own. But I tried, you know? I tried, but I _sucked_ at it, and I…”

“Stiles?”

Stiles was strung taut, twitchy and ready to bolt. “What?”

“Look at me.”

It was the _last_ thing Stiles wanted to do, but he did. Derek was sitting up in bed, watching him intently. Derek’s focus was intense. “You were saying that you smell like me. That’s not what I smell. You smell like _home_. You smell like pack.” His expression softened. “I didn’t want you to have to choose between me and Scott. He’s your best friend.”

“And he can still be that, even if I’m not in his pack.”

Derek looked taken aback. “You want that?”

“Do you?”

“I’m… I missed being in a pack. I missed it so much that I spent just a few nights here and I attached to you. But that’s not your problem.”

“It is if I want it to be,” Stiles mumbled.

Derek looked questioningly at him.

“Look, Derek, I’m asking if this is what _you_ want.”

“You don’t get it, Stiles… you _are_ my pack. Right now, that is reality to me. Not wanting it is not an option. I’d fight to the death to protect this. But I won’t force it on you.”

“You can’t force me into your pack if that’s where I _want_ to be.”

“And do you?” Derek asked.

“Isn’t that what this painfully awkward heart-to-heart has been about? I’m saying I get to _choose_ my pack, and I choose _you_.”

For a moment, there was dead silence. Stiles was pretty sure he could hear his own heart beating.

Then Derek cracked a smile. Not much of one, but Stiles totally saw some teeth.

“You’re going to whine about me brooding,” Derek said.

“You’re going to tell me to shut up all the time.”

“You won’t like me on nights of the full moon.”

“I can guarantee last night won’t be the last time I wake up screaming.”

“I have dead family issues.”

“Nogitsune.”

Derek nodded thoughtfully, mulling over the proposition. Then he lifted his chin. “I can deal with that.”

“Good. Great. Likewise with all your… man-pain. Were-pain. Stuff.”

Derek snorted. “Get over here.”

Stiles wasted no time getting into his bed next to Derek. He lay there on his own side all of five seconds before he thought ‘fuck it, we’re pack’ and sidled over to cuddle the shit out of the werewolf.

Derek chuckled and put his arms loosely around Stiles. Not really a hug. More like a preemptive strike, just in case Stiles thought about trying to get away.

There wasn’t a chance in hell Stiles would.

On the contrary, Stiles sighed and closed his eyes. He started to doze off almost immediately, Derek’s touch pulling some of the remaining pain from his body. He almost didn’t notice the ache anymore. Maybe it would actually be gone one day. He felt good enough to hold out a little hope.

He’d missed optimism.

“Are you ever actually going to tell your dad we’re not involved?” Derek asked as Stiles was drifting off.

“Mmm… maybe I’m just keeping my options open,” he murmured against Derek’s chest.

Derek huffed a breath of air into Stiles’ hair at the comment.

But Stiles noticed, just before falling asleep, that Derek totally didn’t shoot it down.

END


End file.
